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Beyond the Prism of Aphorisms
An Escarpment of memories
Distilled into form
Congealed to moisture
Before the storm.
I visit vagaries of such places
where measuring worlds
Or matching faces
Upon that inward surface
Of a glassy eye,
May bring one tears to cry.
I try to keep them from escaping
I cannot be their jailer,
I stand without an argument,
A broken sailor.
Leaning on rebuke,
Watching stronger currents flow.
Torrents breaking my resistance,
I let go.
Release my silent shout.
Each time I pause to ponder
Slow my spirit, travel yonder.
Amazed at how the moving
And the stillness merge to Now.
The breath of God,
Revealed somehow.
The line or edge or crack or curtain
Whatever you call it, you can be certain
It is the place where all that is: Becomes.
The fraction of the smallest passing
In between the crumbs.
Not raw potential, mud or clay;
Nor finished moment, end of day.
This moving stillness that we call creation,
A touch of which, brings joy and true elation.
Think of Air and you have found me
For I have thought on air;
Now, I surround Thee.
But for this one moment; I am not;
Nor ever did I be.
Without the Air and Thee
There would be no Me.
Copyright ©
Vernon Witmer
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